


Not Doing What You Say

by StarNightingle



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Childish John, Drunk John, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, M/M, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-08
Updated: 2014-09-08
Packaged: 2018-02-16 15:39:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2275275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarNightingle/pseuds/StarNightingle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After getting annoyed at Sherlock for once again ruining his date John decides to have a break away from him at the pub with Greg. He comes back home a little drunk and a lot tired of doing whatever Sherlock tells him to. John Watson is not doing anything Sherlock tells him to do tonight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Doing What You Say

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the ever wonderful Madi for reading this through for me, making sure it wasn't 100% rubbish.

**_I need you- SH_ **

**_I need your assistance- SH_ **

**_John come home, I need you!- SH_ **

John sighed to himself and quickly excused himself from the table to give Sherlock a quick call. If this was some stupid experiment gone wrong or ‘please pass me a pen’ John was not going to be happy. It had taken him the better part of a fortnight to work up the courage to talk to the stunning woman he currently had out to dinner and a further week of daily small talk to convince her to go out with him.

‘What the bloody hell is so important?’ John demanded as soon as Sherlock picked up.

‘Ah, John, splendid. Come home, now, it’s an emergency.’

It sure as hell didn’t sound like an emergency. Sherlock sounded bored out of his mind, like a petulant child left to play by themselves for the evening, deep baritone lazily conveying the words.

‘What is? What’s an emergency?’

There was a pause and what sounded like Sherlock shifting himself on the sofa. ‘It’s a medical emergency,’ he finally continued, ‘There is blood.’

‘How much blood?’ John asked, remembering the time he’d left a girl in a rush on the word ‘blood’ only to get home and discover Sherlock had given himself a shallow paper cut.

‘Oh,’ Sherlock said, the sound of him shuffling again in the background, ‘I’d say about a pint, perhaps two.’

 _Shit_ , John cursed under his breath. One pint was alright, as long as the bleeding had stopped, two was enough that John needed to worry. He glanced over to the perfect, sexy brunette still sat at their table, glancing around wondering why John was taking so long.

‘One or two, Sherlock? How much?’

‘Closer to two, now that I consider it.’

John did the mental calculation; that was nearing 20% of the mad man’s volume. He did a quick check for symptoms he could hear. Sherlock’s voice sounded bored, that might be faintness, his breathing sounded slightly elevated and he was restless. Those could be symptoms of hypovolemia or of simply being Sherlock. He should go home.

‘Christ. Yes. Okay. I’ll be home soon. Is it still bleeding?’

‘No, most definitely not bleeding.’

‘Right, well, I’m twenty minutes out, if I can get a cab quick. Just stay where you are drink plenty of fluids.’

John hung up the phone and then hung his head. Tonight had been going so well. He walked solemnly back to his table, made his excuses to Miss Out-of-my-League and then raced out the door to get a taxi.

~~

John got home to find Sherlock stretched out on the couch. He raced over to where he was laying and knelt at his side. Sherlock cracked an eye open and looked briefly at John before swinging into a sitting position and pushing himself to his feet.

‘Oh good, you’re home. Took you long enough.’

John watched, open mouthed, as Sherlock sauntered over to the kitchen and pulled out two mugs to place on the counter before returning to his chair in his usual make-me-tea act.

‘You told me it was a medical emergency.’ John deadpanned.

‘For someone, I’m sure it is.’

‘You said you were bleeding.’

‘No, I said there was blood.’ Sherlock gestured to the bottles on the counter, which upon inspection were full of blood.

‘You said there was blood,’ John whispered to himself. ‘You said there was blood and I believed you. I left my date for you.’

‘Your date? She was dull anyway. Wouldn’t have lasted longer than a month.’

‘A month...’ John pondered to himself. He pondered the month’s worth of company and chats and sex. Sex that wasn’t a quick wank in the shower trying desperately to keep his mind away from his attractive flatmate. He mourned that wonderful month he wouldn’t even get to experience. He could have wept.

‘Yes, honestly I was saving you the time. There are much more interesting things to do, more productive ways to spend your days, like this case. You should thank me.’ Sherlock said with a lifted chin and a puffed chest, as though he expected praise.

‘Right.’ _Right._ ‘I’m leaving.’

John span on his heel quickly and pretended not to hear Sherlock’s protests. He had been in such a hurry to check Sherlock was ok that his jacket was still on and still had his phone, wallet and keys in it.

He walked out the door and down the stairs without a glance back. If he had looked he would have seen Sherlock Holmes, frozen in place, and watching his best friend leave, the beginnings of fear in his eyes.

~~

John and Greg had a long standing agreement that, under the stress of dealing with Sherlock, either one of them could call the other for a beer at any time. John exercised that right now and half an hour later was shaking Greg’s hand in a pub near the Yard.

‘What’s he done now?’ Greg sighed, somewhat sympathetic and somewhat resigned.

‘Pulled me out of another date.’

‘How’d he get you this time?’

‘Told me it was a medical emergency and there was blood. Two pints of it.’

Greg offered John a beer in consolation.

‘There was blood. Just not his. Working on some case or other, I think. Prick.’

Greg nodded and they both took large swigs of their drinks.

‘What did this bird look like then?’ Greg queried.

‘Oh, she was way outta my reach.’ John said, sipping his drink. ‘Tall, dark hair, smoking hot. Ahh, you shoulda seen her Greg.’

‘Tall with dark hair?’ Greg raised an eyebrow and a corner of his lips lifted. ‘Trying to substitute are we?’

John laughed, ‘You need to give me way more alcohol before I admit to anything like that.’

Greg laughed back, ‘Bottoms up then. Let’s see what I can weasel out of you by the end of the night.’

~~

John would like to say he got the keys in the door first try. He would like to say he climbed the stairs with grace. John would even like to say he didn’t stumble on the threshold. However, if he said any of this, he would be lying.

It took a good five minutes to get the key to agree with his ideas of unlocking the front door. He practically crawled up the stairs. And, in the doorway at the top of the stairs, he almost tripped face first into the arm of the lounge.

When he finally steadied himself and looked around the living room he discovered Sherlock, still in his suit despite the late hour, sat firmly in his chair staring at John fixedly. John straightened, or tried to, and walked over to the kitchen to turn on the kettle. Cup of tea then bed: that was the plan. The mugs Sherlock had placed on the counter were still sat in their spots and John picked his up, resolutely ignoring the other.

‘You’re home.’ Sherlock’s voice cracked, as if from strained disuse.

‘Mmm.’ was all John could muster and if Sherlock wanted to point out the obvious he wasn’t going to give any more effort than that.

‘You were at the pub.’

‘Mmm.’

‘With Lestrade.’

John finished making his tea and flopped gracelessly into his chair, somehow not spilling his tea all down his front on the way. He gave Sherlock his best _obvious_ face and then laughed to himself. John telling Sherlock ‘obvious’, how novel, it was hilarious.

‘You’re drunk.’

‘No shit, Sherlock.’ John mumbled into his cup. Oh that was nice, warm and comforting.

‘You should go to bed. Take your tea with you.’ Sherlock said, straightening his jacket.

‘Mmmm, no.’ John giggled to himself again. ‘No, no, no. I’m not doing what you say tonight, Sherlock.’

Sherlock grunted in reply and shifted in his seat, trying to find a more comfortable position.

‘Have you moved since I left?’ John said, trying his best not to slur his words.

Sherlock glared at him shortly. ‘No.’

‘Why?’ John sighed. Words were hard. Why was he still speaking? Why wasn’t he in bed? Oh, yes, Sherlock told him to, and he was _not_ doing what Sherlock said tonight.

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. He was rather agitated today John noticed. He’d been restlessly shifting all day.

‘You’re moving.’ John said. ‘Shuffling...’

Sherlock looked down at himself and stilled. His hands gripped the arms of the chair he was sitting in to keep his fingers from twitching. Those long slender fingers were so beautiful. John wanted them. John wanted those fingers on his skin, everywhere.

He had had far too much to drink tonight and chat with Greg hadn’t stayed on safe topics. As he was looking at those fingers he remembered imagining aloud what Sherlock could do with them. He would regret that conversation in the morning but right now he could feel his heart rate rise and wished Sherlock hadn’t scared off his date; he could do with the company.

‘Why?’ John asked the room.

‘Why what, John?’

‘Why tonight, Sherlock. Couldn’t I just have a- a month.’

Sherlock scoffed. ‘A month? Why? It wouldn’t have ended well and I don’t see the point of you creating an attachment to someone you weren’t going to keep around.’

‘Maybe if I had a month I could stop picturing you naked for a bit.’ John mumbled. He winced when he realised his drunk mumble wasn’t as quiet as he pictured and Sherlock’s breath caught. ‘M sorry. That wasn’t very- was nt very... was a bit not good.’

The room was quiet for a long second before Sherlock broke it. ‘John you should go to bed.’

‘No.’ John retorted, sounding like a huffy five-year-old.

‘I’m going to my bed. I encourage you to go to yours, but if you’re going to behave like that then I hope you enjoy the arm chair.’

John bolted up, swayed for half a moment, and then gained his balance enough to blunder towards Sherlock’s bedroom door.

‘That’s my room, John.’ Sherlock called.

‘Mmm, ‘m not goin to my bed. Going to yours. Hah!’ John giggled as he allowed himself to fall forwards onto Sherlock’s soft mattress.

‘John, get off my bed.’

‘No.’ John stripped his jumper and jeans off and crawled between the covers. That’d show Sherlock, now he had to deal with the sweat and grubbiness of John Watson in his bed.

‘John.’ Sherlock grumbled a moment before sighing. ‘John I haven’t slept in days. I need my bed.’

John laughed. Appealing to his doctorly side would not work tonight. No way, no how. John lifted the blankets near Sherlock, beckoning him in. There was part of his mind, admittedly not a very loud part at that moment, telling him he was doing something stupid.

Sherlock grumbled again, but, much to John’s surprise, stripped out of his suit, slid into his PJs, which were resting on a chair in the corner, and climbed into the bed next to John. They lay in silence for a moment, breath filling the air.

‘John, move over, you’re hogging the bed.’

John scooted in the bed. Towards Sherlock. Sherlock sighed heavily and John laughed. Sherlock glared at John for a moment before taking action.

Manoeuvring carefully he sat up, rolled towards John and lifted himself. John’s breath caught as Sherlock straddled him. His brain screeched to a stop for a moment before he noticed. Sherlock wasn’t touching him, at all. In fact Sherlock was quickly moving away from John, over to the other side of the bed. It wasn’t a move; he was just trying to get to the side of the bed with more space.

John’s hand darted up and he stopped Sherlock’s movement away. He held the man over himself and let the air flow between them.

‘John. Let go.’ Sherlock breathed.

‘No.’

He certainly didn’t want to do what Sherlock said, feeling his warmth so close. In a moment of drunken madness John leant forwards and pulled his mad flatmate down into a kiss. Sherlock stayed stock still while John kissed him. It took John’s drunken mind a few moments to realise he wasn’t being kissed back so much as he was molesting his best friend’s mouth.

He pulled back quickly and looked at Sherlock’s face, at his eyes, dark and flinty, and his jaw, set like stone, and his lips, kissed red but firmly shut.

‘Let go.’ Sherlock repeated.

John let go of Sherlock as if he’d been burnt. ‘Christ, bollocks, shit. Sherlock, I’m sorry. Oh god, I’m sorry.’

Sherlock finished climbing to the other side and pulled the blankets around him close. John suddenly felt very sober. What the hell was he doing? How much had he drunk? Everything took on a clear shine and the glassy film that had covered his every action and word for the night fell away.

John had sobered up enough that lying in Sherlock’s personal space felt wrong now. He apologised again and started to climb out of the bed when Sherlock’s hand snaked around his wrist. John froze a moment before lying back down.

‘I thought you were leaving.’ Sherlock said in hushed tones. ‘That’s why I hadn’t moved. I needed to be there when you came for your things. I needed to get you to stay.’

‘Sherlock.’ John sighed and rolled to face his friend, propping himself on an elbow. ‘Sherlock I would never leave. I just needed a moment; I’ve done it before, what was different this time?’

‘You didn’t say when you’d be back. You always say when you’ll be back and this time you didn’t.’

John scrubbed a hand across his face and cursed himself for being an idiot and making Sherlock feel like that. ‘Well I’m not leaving. I won’t leave unless you tell me to Sherlock. I love it here. I love the mess and the adventure and the experiments and getting up at three in the morning to go to a crime scene. I love this life, Sherlock.’

Sherlock looked at him cautiously, his eyes studying for a tell that John was lying. John took a breath. He knew Sherlock would be able to see that the sentence didn’t end there. He hoped Sherlock would understand. Realisation dawned in his eyes; it was the same realisation that was there whenever he discovered the final clue that would lead to an answer.

‘Me.’ He said reverently. ‘You love me.’

John chuckled softly, uncomfortable with having his feelings out there. It had been pretty clear that Sherlock was uninterested and John thought he was doing a good job keeping himself in check to avoid losing his best friend.

‘John. Don’t kiss me again.’

John felt his heart shatter a little. His throat tightened painfully and he could only manage to nod jerkily. Sherlock sighed in annoyance and scooted closer. John felt like getting up, running and not stopping. Why was Sherlock getting closer? Was he being purposefully cruel?

‘John. I said “don’t kiss me”’ Sherlock repeated.

John forced his throat clear with a cough. ‘Yes, I know. It’s ok, I won’t.’

Sherlock rolled his eyes and, face mere centimetres from John’s, said lowly, baritone rumbling ‘I liked it better when you were being purposefully obtuse. What was it you said? “I’m not doing anything you say tonight, Sherlock”’

John had a moment to cotton on before Sherlock was kissing him, actively this time. It was as if Sherlock were conducting an experiment on making him melt with pleasure. The kiss was hard then soft, dominating then submissive, all lip then tongue then teeth. Playing with every nerve on John’s lips, seeing what was most effective.

‘You taste like cheap larger.’ Sherlock mumbled.

John groaned and grabbed Sherlock’s hips, dragging him closer. There was the beginnings of hardness pressing against his own. It was surreal, as John always imagined it would be, kissing Sherlock. He was a singular man in all things, it made sense he was exceptional at this too.

‘John.’ Sherlock growled, and John had never heard his name sound so amazing said by anyone else. ‘John, you shouldn’t take your shirt off.’

‘No? I will to spite you.’ John replied, pulling away and tearing the shirt from his body. John was now naked except for his boxers and determined even things up. ‘And I’ll make it worse and take yours off too.’

Sherlock allowed John to pull his cotton pyjama shirt off and then pushed John back into the mattress. This time when Sherlock straddled him it wasn’t a distant quick jump over. He ground himself against John’s length. They both moaned, needy and full of lust.

John noticed he was being examined, Sherlock’s sharp eyes had found his scar. Sherlock traced his fingers over the tissue, tracing it and memorising every line. John used the time to take in the broad expanse of flesh on display to him. Sherlock really was beautiful, all pale and smooth panes.

As John ran his hands up Sherlock’s torso the genius seemed to have a moment of doubt. ‘You’re not gay.’ He said bluntly.

‘I would have thought you have enough evidence to assume I’m not entirely straight either. Now if you’d stop having my sexual crisis for me.’ John pushed up against Sherlock again, pulling his lips down in another kiss.

The friction was enough to kill John. It felt wonderful but wasn’t enough, keeping him just enough on edge that he might go insane. He needed more. Sherlock, apparently, had the same idea.

‘Your pants.’ He breathed, ‘Your pants should always be on when I’m around.’

John scrambled out of his underwear, Sherlock pulling his down simultaneously. This time, when they met it was all hot, hard flesh and John swore loudly. When was the last time he’d had sex? When was the last time Sherlock had let him get a leg over? Too long, this wasn’t going to last.

He could see from the look on Sherlock’s face that he wasn’t alone in that regard. Sherlock looked enraptured, eyes lidded, lips parted, corners tilting up slightly and his entire focus was on John. John wriggled around until he could fit his hand down between their bodies and grasp them both in his fist.

Sherlock’s hips bucked slightly as John moved his hand up and down their lengths. His breath was coming out in gasps and his arms shook in pleasurable waves where he was holding himself up above John.

John could feel Sherlock unravelling beneath his fingers, beautiful as ever. They locked eyes and John couldn’t help himself, he needed to say it himself.

‘I love you.’ He said, pumping away, ‘It’s crazy, but I love you.’

Sherlock’s mouth fell open completely and he soundlessly came, stuttering in John’s hand, white pearls decorating John’s stomach. The sight of it was enough to push John over the edge too, his orgasm hitting him in a slightly louder way than Sherlock’s had, crying out in ecstasy.

Sherlock pressed another messy kiss on John’s lips and grabbed his shirt off the floor to clean them. John grumbled slightly, cleaning his stomach with Sherlock’s hundred quid pyjama shirt, the bathroom wasn’t five steps away. He was silenced when Sherlock cuddled into his side.

This was what he wanted. This was happiness. ‘So would you like to hear about the undead murder victim, the one who lost the blood? I could always use your medical opinion, brilliantly lacking any real insight no doubt but none the less useful.’ This was Sherlock.

‘I’m useful.’ John said, propping himself comfortably to hear about the case.

‘You are. And John,’ Sherlock said, nuzzling into his neck, ‘I love you too.’

 


End file.
